How I goddamn loved radio

The same eight songs play every two hours like chickens

on rotisseries while deejays stumbling over band names

that are misspelled anyway - don't you

realize how I goddamn loved radio?

A larger malaise is at work here, a

pain, an ache that leads to extra honking,

extra honking, extra honking,

nights spend with your favorite shows,

favorite shows, favorite shows,

topped by watercooler daytimes and

milquetoast love songs spending

six weeks at number one -

even burrowing into your head if

you let 'em.

Whomever wants to know the lyrics of

dizzy chicken songs shall be sentenced

to critiquing some celebrity's new 'do

in relation to their own.

(I'm not saying it's okay but I see how)

it could make you murder

just to get some change,

some strange into a life

as far from life as pigs are to

Spam.

Do something with sincerity:

rhyme a word with orange or

write a ode to heartbreak on pots-

-pans-and-a-piece-of-string or find

a random belly to feed, and fill it.

Give someone something that was

theirs but was taken

away away away . . .

but who can advocate humanity at a

time when Caller 9 could be

a winner so you can win tickets

to an event that

you didn't even know was happening?